To Sleep, Perchance
by ethelbertina
Summary: Bobby has a mostly sleepless night...


To Sleep, Perchance…

_a/n: woke up over-tired and jittery as a result of some remodeling I'm doing in my "spare" time, and I wondered if this is a little like how over-tired season six Bobby feels… it went from there…_

He jerked awake suddenly, sleep still weighing him down, with slivers of a dream still clinging to his consciousness. He had fragmented dream memories of crowds and struggle, trying to get someplace through masses of people who were all going in different directions, of subway cars rushing by, of noise and disorder. Through his partially opened window he could hear the garbage men driving their truck down his street and banging the trash cans around. He lay there with his arm over his eyes wondering what time it was, and whether he'd really gotten any sleep at all…

They'd been out chasing leads and interviewing suspects till after midnight, so by the time they got back to the office, filed their reports, gathered up their stuff and headed home it had been close to 2 a.m. He'd made it home around 2:30, dropped his stuff on the table by the front door, and collapsed on the couch, flipping on the TV hoping to find some distraction for his overactive mind. After rejecting the info-mercials, and late night pundits, he turned off the set and grabbed a book off the coffee table. He poured himself a slug of scotch from the bottle sitting there, and tried to find comfort where he had found it so many times in the past… in words. He had found himself drawn to poetry of late, and especially Coleridge, although he hadn't taken the time to analyze the attraction.

He was trying not to think too much. His brain was always on over-drive and he tried to settle into the words on the page in front of him. He flipped through the pages waiting for something to catch his eye, when he saw these words at the top of a page…

_There was a time when, though my path was rough,_

_This joy within me dallied with distress,_

_And all misfortunes were but as the stuff_

_Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :_

_For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,_

_And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine._

_But now afflictions bow me down to earth :_

_Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ;_

_But oh ! each visitation_

_Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,_

_My shaping spirit of Imagination._

_For not to think of what I needs must feel,_

_But to be still and patient, all I can; _

"Patience, Sam? That's what you have for me tonight?" Normally he found comfort in reading, but it didn't seem to be helping this night. He dropped the book on the couch beside him and got up, wandering around his apartment looking for some way to quiet his mind. He knew he'd never find sleep possible till he did. He wandered into the kitchen, aimlessly washing the few dishes sitting in his sink. He opened the window at the end of his kitchen that led out onto the fire escape. He dumped some water into the pots of rosemary, mint, chive, dill, and oregano sitting there. He put the glass back on the drainer and returned to the window looking out at the brick walls and the twinkling lights. He sighed as he sat on the sill listening to the night sounds of a city he loved, feeling the air currents ruffling the curls on the back of his head, and absently running his fingers through the leaves of the herbs and inhaling their fragrances.

As he sat there listening to the distant sirens, the sound of music from the bar down the street, the click of heels on the pavement, and the occasional hiss from a stray cat, his cell phone chirped from the hall table. He walked over, flipped it open, and reading the message on the screen, smiled.

"Home safe and sound. Mail nothing but bills. Nick and Nora send their love. You sleepy yet?"

He tapped out a quick reply. "Not yet. Did dishes. Tried scotch and poetry. Coleridge advises patience."

Knowing there would be a response, he stood there waiting, absently sorting through his mail, and dropping the junk mail into the kitchen trash can.

When his phone chirped again, he read his message and laughed.

"Screw Coleridge. Eat something, take a hot shower, and get into bed. Pick you up around 8. Sweet dreams."

"Sleep well Eames. Thank You. See you in the morning."

He flipped his phone shut, and put it in his pocket. "Sorry, Sam, Eames knows best," he thought to himself.

Grabbing a Bartlett pear from the fruit bowl on the counter he sliced it into wedges, put it on a plate, got a block of English Wensleydale cheddar out of the fridge, cut a couple slices, put the cheese slices on the plate with the pear sections, tossed the trash, rinsed the knife and the cutting board, and wandered back to the coffee table. He poured himself another couple fingers of scotch, and carrying his drink back into the kitchen, had his snack while leaning up against the kitchen window frame listening to the city outside.

He put the empty plate and glass in the sink, closed and locked the window, checked the locks on his front door, and headed into his bedroom.

He put his phone on the table next to the bed, and plugged it into its charger. He emptied his pockets onto the surface of his dresser, and taking off his tie he returned it to the rack on the back of the closet door. He hung his suit jacket back onto its hangar, put his shoes on the floor of his closet and wandered into the bathroom. "Maybe a hot shower will help," he mused. "It can't hurt…" He turned on the water in the tub to get warm while he brushed his teeth. He turned on the shower, dumped his clothes into the hamper, and stepped under the warm water and tried to let the stresses of his life drain away with the soapy water.

He toweled himself off, slipped into a pair of boxers, and a well-worn grey NYPD t-shirt from his academy days, and after cracking the bedroom window for some fresh air, he climbed into bed. He didn't have a lot of hope of staying there long. He was tired, but predicted that he wasn't settled enough to sleep, but following his friend's advice, he plumped up the pillows, slid under the covers, turned out the light and lay there with his eyes closed hoping that somehow he'd nod off.

He tried to think peaceful thoughts. He imagined himself walking through a stately forest of tall trees, but the crunching sounds of the leaves underfoot just took his thoughts back to yesterday's crime scene. He tried to think of himself on vacation on some white sand beach in Greece, but the whole idea seemed so ludicrous that he rolled over on his side in frustration. He tried counting sheep, but that just led his thoughts back to an article he'd read recently on cloning and its genetic implications. He rolled onto his other side, plumped up the pillow again, glanced at the clock next to his bed that read 3:34 a.m. Rolling onto his back, he tried to think about nothing. It rarely worked, but as he concentrated on listening to his breathing in and out, in and out, he found his eyes were fluttering shut and he tried not to fight to keep them open. "Just breathe in and out, and lay quietly," he thought to himself. "Even if you can't get to sleep, the rest will do you some good."

Sleep must have won the battle, although it was a short-lived victory when, not long after he drifted off, his phone rang. He bolted awake, grabbed the phone, looked at the caller id, sighed, sat up, turned to sit on the edge of the bed, ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and flipped the phone open.

"Hi Ma. What's up?"

The clock next to the bed now read 4:12 a.m.

"Bobby? Are you OK, Bobby?"

"I'm fine, Ma. What's the problem?"

"I saw them. They were all after you. They were pushing you and you were falling and falling and I couldn't reach you."

"It was just a dream. It's OK. I'm fine."

"But the people Bobby, they wanted to hurt you."

"No one's hurting me, Ma. I'm fine. I'm at home. There's no one here to hurt me. It's OK."

"I saw them Robert. There were going to hurt you."

"OK, Ma. But they're not here right now. I'm fine. I'm talking to you on the phone, right? So I must be OK."

"But how do I know it's you? Maybe they've taken you and it's all a trick."

"It's not a trick."

"It could be."

"You ask me something only I'll know, and then you'll see. Think Ma. Ask me something so you'll know, and then you can try and get some sleep."

"My Bobby always read Sherlock Holmes mysteries. If you're him, you tell me, what was Sherlock's brother's name?"

"Sherlock's brother's name is Mycroft, Ma."

"No, no, too easy… you tell me… if you are Bobby… that Easter when you were four. What did Uncle Sal give you for a present?"

"Uncle Sal gave me a rabbit. You named him Harvey. He was mean and used to bite. I was glad when Frank let him out of his cage and he ran away…"

"Bobby?"

"Yes Ma."

"Is Frank there? Can I talk to him?"

"No Ma. Frank is… Well he's not here right now. He said he'd call you soon."

"I miss him, Bobby."

"I know Ma. I miss him too."

"Read me something, Bobby. I'm scared."

"You want me to read to you Ma?"

"Read me something so I can sleep."

"OK, Ma."

Bobby picked up the books laying on his bedside table and selecting a well-worn volume he slid back under the covers, turned on his bedside light, and opening the book, he began to read.

"Here Ma, listen to this. You like this one, this one always makes you feel better… just close your eyes and listen to the words…"

_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,_

_it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness,_

_it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity,_

_it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness,_

_it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair,_

_we had everything before us, we had nothing before us,_

_we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct_

_the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present_

_period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its_

_being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree_

_of comparison only…_

Bobby read until a small voice at the other end of the phone said, "Thank you Bobby, I think I can sleep now. I'm just going to close my eyes…"

"Ok, goodnight Ma. I love you."

As his mother hung up her phone, Bobby hung up his, and tossed it back onto the bedside table. He rolled over on his side and an errant tear or two leaked out from between his closed eyelids.

Even though he couldn't see it, his bedside clock now showed the time to be 4:47 a.m.

Sheer exhaustion must have taken him, Bobby realized as he lay there listening to the garbage men clattering the metal cans, and clinking the glass bottles in the recycling bins. The sun was shining palely as he chased the last fragments of his dream from his memory. He rolled over and looked at his clock. It was now 7:10 a.m.

"Well, at least I got a couple hours sleep," he thought. His phone chirped and he smiled as he read the message.

"Put the coffee on. Will be there soon. What does Coleridge advise this morning?"

He texted her back, and went to put the coffee on before he got dressed.

Alex finished locking her front door, and was turning to go down the steps to her car, when her phone chirped. She snorted at the message.

"Screw Coleridge, remember. Spent night with Dickens instead. He advises bagels with the coffee…"

_a/n: the poetry excerpt is from "Dejection: an Ode" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Read it. It's pure Goren… _


End file.
